Brighter than Sunshine: Northern Light
by Jay's World
Summary: Companion to BtS, from the view of an Americanized Viking. "Because with Rosalie I'd do anything. Give her the moon and the stars, recite poems and write songs. I can't stay and see her be given plastic when she deserves diamonds." For my Ro. My love. AH
1. Transatlantic Northern Light

**Brighter than Sunshine  
Northern Light  
**

**by  
Jay's World**

For my Rosalina Bambina.

~Oh baby~

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Vær så snill mamma, la meg bli!"

- "Please mom, let me stay here!"

It is the last words I speak on Norwegian soil.

Then the plane takes off and my mom drowns my crying out with teeny tiny liquor bottles. Dad is on the opposite row, leaning back in the white cushioned seat. We're flying first class. Nothing's ever good enough for the Brenden family. Or should I say Brandon now?

Mom and dad have decided it's time to Americanize, and what better place to do that than America itself?

So goodbye Scandinavia. Farewell to Europe. I'll miss it.

But I leave a giant fuck you and middle finger to our home town.

Prejudiced assholes. Ignorant fools.

The biggest tourist attraction in the three union countries. My ass. Fuck it.

I'm only sixteen but I don't need to wonder anymore. I know who they are, and because of that I'm a little relieved that we're going, but at the same time I'm going to miss them, no matter how bigoted they truly are.

Andrea, she was the freckled girl with troll's hair. And me, the Viking. Though ironically I never rooted for Viking football team. No way, Rosenborg 'till the end and hope to die. Our motto. My countrymen.

I'll miss the lot. Especially my great uncle who got me drunk at age ten. By accident of course, he thought I was fifteen and should be thrown into 'trønder' laws of drinking. Karsk, coffee and booze. As an adolescent I wasn't ready, but four years later I downed them like a pro.

Now I'm soaring over the Atlantic, listening to DCfC's Transatlantic, peering out the window to catch first glance of Lady Liberty. She's a Norwegian immigrant too, made with copper from the mines two hours from my town.

In New York, Ellis Island, I'll be a foreigner stepping onto new soil. You can fit my entire country in there, and five times more. It's pathetic, and so am I. Just a Viking…missing her troll.

The Troll and the Viking would never roam the mall again, or form our one-day-lasting clubs by the river.

I'll never be a senior! We pinky-promised to run across the bridge naked on May 16th!

Get pissed and puke, our nicknames had already been picked out. She would be Curly (Krølle) and I would forever be Boozy.

_Boozy Brenden!  
Address: by the play ground.  
Phone: speed dial, people!  
If life goes against you, go into reverse!  
"And I couldn't say thank you, I just had to say MOO!"_

Our cards to deal out to the little kids had been formed in our minds, tracing the lines of those before us. Our tradition set. We'd be Russ in the year 2013, and here I was in '11, numbing my ass on five thousand kroner seats.

Nine hundred bucks for luxury leather plane seats and a few extra inches of leg room. The decadence horrifies me.

The plane touches down, and I'm trapped in a giant apple. Green, red? They never told me the color, just that NYC is an apple.

The worms don't mingle around Plaza hotel. I wonder how much of grandpa's fortune they've burned off already. I miss him too, but I know he's resting in heaven with Nan. There's nothing to worry about up there.

We stay for three days, getting the whirlwind, snap-happy Japanese tourist experience, walking around like utter fools. But my mom is happy, going crazy in Soho and dad is constantly on the phone with his business partners.

His business? Not sure actually, I'd never cared until they told me we were moving.

Now I know it's something with trees… That's all though.

So we trip around the Metropolitan, before it's time to move on.

Again we fly, and a guy older than my dad asks me to join the Mile High Club with him. I ask him why he thinks I'm not already in it and he says I'm too young.

He just answered his own question, and I switch seats with my dad, sitting with mom again.

Even though I am sixteen, I hold her arm when the turbulence kicks in, telling her I love her so much and I didn't mean to yell 'I hate you!' before we came here.

She laughs, but forgives me, though to her there's nothing to forgive.

We have to drive four hours from Seattle, but it's okay since I'm used to be driving 10 hours to and fro' the north each summer. Until Gramps died that is. Then we went to Santorini instead. Oh the Greeks, how they inspired my palate and fuelled my passion for cooking.

But then we get to the dreary town, and I can't say I'm not disappointed.

Constant rain and my short hair filled with product don't mix well, and as the rain pour down on us I'm soaked and deflated just walking from the car to the house.

Our new house, on the west coast of America where I'll become Americanized.

Maybe I'll streak my hair? A new home, a new me. It's just what I want. I want to be something. Though in Forks, I am nothing, not even an outcast. A wallflower. The first week no one even notices me, except the teachers who can't believe I'm only sixteen and yet can speak English fluently.

Sure my accent has a tinge of British in it, but I try to tone it down. Blend in.

But when in my life have I ever been normal? Last year I let Patrick cut my hair while he was drunk. While I was high on a water pipe filled with pot.

My hair used to flow to my waist, but in a stupid split second decision it was gone. I was emo for months, dying it coal black and spiking the ends. Corlin, the Danish boy, was my company that time. Until his reeking smell started to rub off on me and my clothes attracted moths.

Then I returned to Andrea and Marty, wearing Uggs and a Palestine scarf. Hoop earrings and fishnet stockings under booty short denim shorts. It was cool then. When I was fifteen.

Now Thanksgiving is closing in and I'm nervous as hell. My first American holiday, and I have no idea what to do. Dress up, dress down? I do neither.

The Whitlock's have invited us for dinner, my parents are inside with them but I excuse myself and go outside to the garden.

They have a swing set, because Jasper used to have a little sister. She's gone now. Like the old me.

Only she was hit by a car and I died on a plane.

Jasper sits with me, clinging to the chains with white knuckles.

An hour later we're sitting under a tree in his back yard, his head in my lap and my fingers in his hair. It's soft, like a girls, and I miss the feeling. I miss Janet, the foreign exchange student in 10th grade who made me realize what I was. She didn't know any other English word for it, and she spoke with a lisp.

Dythe. Dyke. Gay. Scissor sisters.

I didn't love her, I just let her kiss me and touch my boob at a house party.

Then, no one really cared, because even the boys made out. They weren't gay though, it was spin the bottle. Tongues were a must. With Janet, I used it all.

For such a small chick, she had power. While I writhed she held my hips down, pressing her tongue harder against me. My thigh had a hickey the next day, and the rest of me glowed in post coital bliss.

Once my first Thanksgiving dinner has been devoured, the women gossip about Mrs. Stanley's latest affair and the men retreat to smoke cigars.

Jasper takes me to his room. But it's wrong. He's straight and I'm not. He gets turned on by girls and I do too. It's wrong to lead him on, but then his hand is covering my small breast and squeezing. Why does it feel good?

And I think about Rosalie, who's dating the Spartan QB2, and I wonder what it would be like to touch her breast. Her, who's so small but so full breasted, and me, who's never gone higher than a modest B cup filled with tissues. I'm not using them today, so it's not embarrassing when Jasper pulls my top down and bites them.

So I tell him and he's pacing the floor, hands in his hair and pants undone.

The tent is still pitching, and I'm slightly fascinated. What does it look like? He thinks I'm crazy but pulls down his boxers, letting it spring. And I'm in awe. It's so…veiny. Kind of. And long and thick, and my hand only _just_ reaches around it. And he moans the same way I do when I let him touch me under my panties.

I thought gay meant you can only have pleasure from the same sex, but Jasper tells me I might be bi, and I'm okay with that. As long as a threesome will be in the near future. Another female participant involved. He's not hard to budge on that, and when I'm seventeen I reach my sexual high.

Or so I think.

Jasper stays with me wherever I go, and I know that he loves me. I tell him I don't feel the same way and he says it's okay, but I'm not sure I can believe him.

What about when I go to CIA in New York to cook? I've already been promised a spot in their culinary program, winning a scholarship I don't really need. My parents can afford it.

But Jasper, I don't want to be the one to break his heart. His heart should be saved for the day he meets someone who's able to love him back.

But because I'm with Jasper, fake couple in public and fuck buddies in private, I become popular. Everyone wants to be me, be with me, and know about me. It's how I befriend Bella, and meet Edward. But I don't ever say his name, hearing the British seep out of me when I do. So he's dubbed Eddie, and he hates me for it. But Bella can't know, both me and Eddie knows it will break her heart, 'cause he's her true love and I'm her new bff.

But not forever; only until graduation when I can escape all of this.

In Norway I would already have graduated, swam in the river before May 1st and bought a condom and cucumber at the grocery store wearing only a bathrobe with nothing underneath.

Mine is pink with yellow ducks on it. It's adorable. I wonder if Curly ran without me?

Jasper and I become an item, romantically or not, we are together. The sex is great, I can't deny that, but when I turn eighteen and imagine Rosalie Hale between my legs instead of him, I know I'm not bi. My body may react to his touch, but the orgasms are mild. Not mind blowing. I just cum. And that's unfair to him.

At school things are chaos. Graduation is next week and resident whore – Tanya Denali, crab-denial – is hosting the biggest party in Forks history.

It doesn't seem so grand to me though, remembering the parties I went to back home. But here in small town America, Tanya is the queen bee.

Everyone's going, so it doesn't surprise me when virginal Bella in white approaches me and asks for a makeover. It's tomorrow, so I'll go over three hours before. I don't need any more time than that. But Jasper comes over, nervous and horny and needy, and I don't have the heart to turn him down.

_After graduation_, I tell myself. But after our second round I kick him to the curb, just as a familiar green Beetle almost skids over my front lawn.

It's her. Hale. Ro. The golden beauty, the reason my wrist is sore every morning from heavy self-pleasuring. But then Jasper opens his big, fat mouth, "Crazy Ro, slow down!" and I slap him. Not hard, just on the shoulder, and he shrugs it off as if it's nothing. But it's not nothing, it's the girl I lust after. The object of my every fantasy.

I wonder, if I put on Emmett's football jersey, would she like me then?

But of course she won't, she's Ro Hale.

So I push Jasper off my porch, yelling to mom I've ran out of hairspray. She doesn't even have the time to respond before I'm flying like a bat out of hell in my ballet flats. They're not made for running, but I don't care. I want to apologize, to explain.

"Oh hey Rosalie, we've never talked in the two years I've been here but I have an insane crush on you and I'm sorry if Jasper hurt your feelings by calling you crazy. I don't think you're crazy, I actually think you're the most beautiful thing on earth."

When I come to her street it's quiet, no cars in the drive way so I know Emmett's not here.

I've seen them make out and it always hurt, if he was here doing…that with her, I'd just breakdown in tears. But there's only silence, until I hear music.

In the window facing the street, Rosalie is perched on the sill with eyes closed. But I can see the tears rolling down her cheeks, accompanied by a melody.

_I never understood before_  
_I never knew what love was for_  
_My heart was broke, my head was sore_

_What a feeling. _

Did she and Emmett break up? Should I go up and comfort her? No, I can't, I stay on the pavement until the song finishes and she turns back to her room. She doesn't even know I'm here. Here just dying to confess my feelings.

So I leave, scurrying back to my own house to get ready, fixing up for our final bash.

Bella is an easy task as it turns out, once she gives me her ideas and pictures. Highlights, 'cause Eddie boy aka 'lover boy extraordinaire who won't have sex but will do everything else' loves the damn things.

Personally I think it screws up with her natural chocolate, but it's like Japp, caramel pushed between it. And it doesn't turn out ugly either, as I streak and brush and cover. Aluminium is trashed in the bathroom, and ammonia reeks through the house. I open the window, peering outside.

"Did you and Ro have a fight or something?"

"No. I've never even talked to her Bella, why would I fight with her?"

Why would I ever want anything but passion and love from that gorgeous creature?  
The number one woman on Emmett McCarty's to-fuck list.

"Oh it was nothing, she just seemed a little strange when I told her you're coming over."

She seemed a little strange when her car ruined my mom's petunias too, but I don't tell her that. Instead I just nod my head and then bop to the radio.

Eddie picks up Bella as I leave, glaring at my use of nicknames, calling me a fairy in return. It doesn't even phase me, for I'm ready to drown my sorrows in the poor excuse that Americans call beer.

What happened to Tuborg and Carlsberg? Every tenth Danish person is an alcoholic for a reason; they make the best beer. But I manage to chug down the keg, trapped inside Jasper's arms and cheered on by half of the football team.

They call his name, and I know that Emmett is here. Which only means…

But I don't see her, even though I stretch my neck into the sky until I stand on my tippy-toes.

But all I can hear is Emmett, talking to Jasper as if they're best friends, though I know they only have History class together.

"She sure is fucking fine, ain't she?"

"Like a plumb ready to be plucked."

"Oh she's been plucked all right!"

They make me want to hurl, but Jasper's grip is too strong and I'm trapped with him.

With Jasper and his one-sided love.

"And I plan on plucking tonight too."

"Yeah. I got this list, all the places and positions I want to do before college…and in college too, but I'm saving the best for then. Right now, my little lady is gonna let all these fuckers know who she belongs to."

And then he's gone, and I'm writhing in Jasper's arms. But I'm drunk, and he's trying to help me stand straight while chatting mindlessly with friends and laughing at some kid who's skinny dipping in the pool. But Rosalie, oh Ro! To Em it's all a game, and she really is on his to fuck-list.

Oh Ro.

Hiding my sobs makes it hard to breathe, hard to keep balance, straining to stay coherent.

_She moans._

The bushes move and people stop talking, staring the movement. Listening to her ecstasy.

_She groans._

Someone is snickering, Tanya Denali is shushing people while her phone is hosted in the air to record this.

_She whimpers. _

What the fuck is he doing to her? Even I, in my buzzed state, can hear her pleasure is mixed with unwanted pain.

I slap Tanya, stomping on her phone while she calls me a bitch.

The noises stop and Emmett is out of the bushes, grinning from ear to ear while buckling his belt.

I'm out of there before she returns. I can't look at her. I can't see her happiness with someone else, even if the joy is fake.

Because with Rosalie I'd do anything. Give her the moon and the stars, recite poems and write songs. I can't stay and see her be given plastic when she deserves diamonds.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Six years ago I fled my demons, dropping out of my life plans.

I never spoke to Jasper after I told him it was over and watched him cry. I couldn't stay in Forks. Or America, the place that changed me.

I went home, hiding in a one bedroom house on the tip of the north, crossing the border to Russia on a daily basis and shooing reindeer out of my garden.

I stayed up for the midnight sun in the summer, and lit lights all day during the black winter.

But I was alone, separated from my own: Americans. Chefs.

I went to a cousin in Trondheim, working for him in his restaurant for three years until it was time for me to move on.

I still wasn't a chef though, just talented. I could make parfait and a flawless hollandaise without breaking a sweat, but I still didn't have the glory of that certificate hanging on my wall.

12 to 12 work was fun and all, enthralling and exhausting, educational, but I craved more.

So I'm back, I've been back for six months now, living with my parents first until the CIA let me back in. I will be forever grateful for the head of admission who granted me the space, because now I'm already top of my class.

Manhattan lures me in one day, wrapping me tight in warm clothes to shield me from the October wind.

Then I see it, the hair so fair and golden, a butterfly flowing with color along the grey pavement.

I stop her, talk to her, beyond excited and ecstatic that she's here. Not even six years has weakened my infatuation with her, and the years have been nothing but good to her.

Features lifted to womanhood. Free.

No Emmett.

And so I fall into talking, letting the conversation flow so easily. Because I'm with her, looking down at her but up at the same time. Into stars and the moon. Night sky and shining sun. She glows, eyes fixated.

And in her sadness and happiness – through tears and smiles, she reminds me of the northern light I saw in Finmark when I moved back to Norway, and how it danced across the sky. Hosting colors a rainbow could only dream of.

She's my light. My Ro. My everything.

_I__'m yours and suddenly you're mine_  
_Suddenly you're mine_  
_And it's brighter than sunshine._

~ Fin ~

* * *

**A Viking's Note. **

A small companion piece to Inlove Withmyjj's "Brighter than Sunshine" from Alice's (my) point of view.

Hey, they voted us as cutest couple, let us be adorable and utterly gross. We're in love!

Rosenborg – football/soccer team from Trondheim.

The italic ramblings is something all graduates do in Norway. They dress up in funny red/black/white/green/blue overalls (depending on your major) and go on a 17 day drinking binge where they give out cards with stuff like that written on, and do pranks.

http:/en[dot]wikipedia[dot]org/wiki/Russefeiring - if you want to know more about russ.

CIA - Culinary Institue of America.


	2. Primal Needs for Reassurance

**Brighter than Sunshine  
****Northern Light**

**by  
Jay's World.**

~For my insatiable 'Rican~

"Oh, _baby_!"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

If there was anything I'd ever been grateful for in the American school system, it was the student dividing for classes. In Norway, from 1st to 7th grade you only had classes with the same people. Same with 8th through 10th grade when we were divided again. Troll and I had been lucky enough to be together for ten years before 'videregående' – our high school, broke us apart in different majors – me in cooking and her general studies.

But here, in America, it wasn't as narrow minded.

Here, I had classes with everyone at some point through the day.

And my favorite – physical education. Though I hadn't cared rats ass about the teacher or jumping jacks, the showers had been my heaven. My nirvana.

Give me your curvy, your tall and your short. The female body, so fucking beautiful for my teenage, horny self. But the absolutely most divine moment of my high school education had been my Junior year.

Because that year, Ro had been in my P.E. class.

I'd go all day frantic, waiting to see her. Her breast full and stretching the fabric of her tee, the short cut mandatory shorts showing off her creamy legs. And then she's sweat, running with her chest bouncing, hypnotizing me.

Then we'd go to the showers, and I'd peek at her while she pulled at her shirt and skidded the shorts down. If I'd been forced to say one thing about Emmett, if would have been that he had good taste in underwear, because Ro went from innocent – but just as erotic – white cotton panties to shocking pink thongs.

_Thank you Emmett, at least you did one thing right. _

But alas, she'd cover up in a towel and head for the showers. Though I doubt she ever noticed, I was always hot on her heal.

Her body. A water fall covering her with droplets. Wet.

_Beautiful. _

Lathering soap and coating her full body. From her transfixing chest to the swing of her knee cap.

_Divine. _

I imagined the showers vacant, except for her. And me.

I would push her against the wall and devour her mouth. Taste her sweet tongue against mine and hear her moan.

I'd tower over her, pinning her body with mine, pressing myself against her full length. Roaming her, feeling every inch of her perfect features.

In her presence, I'd worship her.

Because she deserved it. Deserves it still.

_Diamonds. _

Now I'm holding her hand, beckoning her to follow me through the busy streets of New York. I'm pushing and growling, cursing at people who shout at me. And she is behind me.

Following me.

Letting me lead.

I wonder if she knows-?

Does she feel the same way?

Then I'm not myself, I'm not in my own body. I'm just in a vacant place, where everything is light and pure and love, and she's with me. I lose track of time, soaring across the sky.

And when I open my eyes again, I'm home. Because Rosalie is standing in front of me with the utmost gaze adoration. And I really know it then, but I'm too scared to say it.

So I embrace primal needs and lust and hate and confusion.

Top.

_Off._

Pants.

_Wrecked._

Underwear.

_Ripped. _

I just need her, raw and bare and content.

Then I push her, seeing her fall hard and soft against the plush pillows on my bed.

Yes, I'm home, but home is where she is, not a place where I pay my bills.

I'm soaring again, floating on a cloud of ecstasy and…_love._

Because I can see her face, her eyes inviting me in with their golden brown and lust and admiration. She admires me! How could it be, when in her presence I am nothing but a Pawn for her Queen? I may be the one making the moves, but she is the one pulling the strings.

She beckons me in with her radiating beauty, but keeps me with her sweet smell.

And I will give her what she deserves.

_Diamonds. _

So I strip so fast I get dizzy and sway, but her gaze steadies me. Captures me. Keeps me safe. And god how I feel alive, ready to take her as she takes me in return. I'm ready to show her my soul and my heart, presenting them to her wrapped in silk paper and flowing ribbons.

She deserves the best.

I smile, unable to contain the brightest emotion I've ever felt, and she lights up in response.

But even in my state of heightened arousal, I need to take my time. Bide it, evaluate it, _what to touch first?_

And since everything begins at the ground, and because those legs have only grown more gracefully and delicate with time, I kiss her skin. Her legs, thighs, my breath panting at the smell of her. I can s_mell _her arousal!

I look into her eyes, lit with gold and expectations, her shivers electing labored breaths.

"Så vakker."

-"So beautiful"-

Then I'm all over her, devouring her, smelling her, _tasting_ her.

I put my hand on her breast, _finally _I get to feel her soft flesh beneath my eager hands. So I go gentle, caressing and ghosting with fingertips because as she hardens underneath me I grow goosebumps. And I wonder if just touching her can bring me to the brink of euphoria.

But I mouth is accompanying my fingers, desperate for her moans and groans and pleadings.

I fix on her eyes, then her lips as she nibbles and wets them with her lush tongue swiping out from the entrance to heaven.

Then I kiss her, so gently and chaste that I berate myself for denying the feel of them before.

But this is not about me, but of her.

What _she _deserves.

So I spread her wide, kneeling between her legs as they so willingly open for me.

For me. Letting me lead her.

But gah, the smell is too much for me to handle and I can't control myself! Forcefully but lovingly I take a hold of her inner thighs, laying down so that I'm _right there. _And she's glistening wet.

For me!

She moans, spurring me on, and I run my tongue flat from her entrance to the bundle of nerves that harbors that sweet spot I've dreamt of for so long.

I suck and lick and flick, my tongue doing what it craves, swiping all of her juices.

"Å Gud!"

-"Oh God"- , I purr against her mound as I work her to a frenzy.

And I'm not far behind, rubbing my own legs together in the need of friction. Of release. But this is about Ro. About diamonds.

_Thrust._

_Thrust._

_Thrust._

Trust.

Love.

Does she love me too?

My fingers search, pushing deeper and deeper inside of her. But it's not enough, I need her to know exactly how much I desire her. Like she desires me.

I need her to taste herself, so that she'll see why I crave her.

And she moans, spurring me on, and I tell her "Yes baby" – yes, do you see now?

I need the confirmation, and her eyes show me everything, brimming with unshed tears that mirror my weeping heart that has ached for her for so long. _So fucking long. _

Her eyes vibrate, and I connect us once more, my mouth on hers. Taking. Given. Together.

She takes control, letting my legs straddle her, my own pleasure finally found. Rocking together we become one in ecstasy, her screaming my name and me thinking – _yes, yes, I'm the one who gives you pleasure. Say my name! Tell me what you feel!_

But I'm too scared to say that, and restrain my ramblings through my fingers, finally making her explode in pleasure and screams.

Her face, her final oohh's and aah's pushes me over the edge and I'm with her there in heaven.

Soaring. Floating.

I can't hold back my tears, letting my despair and hope and love stain her flawless skin.

"Jeg elsker deg, jeg elsker deg. Ikke gå ifra meg. Ikke la meg leve uten deg."

-"I love you, I love you. Please don't leave. Please don't make me live without you."-

In her embrace I find hope.

Hope for love and togetherness.

I want her to be mine.

I want her to own me.

To be together.

But dread circles my mind… Does she feel the same way?

* * *

**A Vikings Note. **

Unbetaed this time, I just didn't have the patience. I never have. Not when it comes to Ro. Since so many of you requested more, we had no choice but to deliver. So I hope you're happy, I know I am.

Leave us some love, people!


	3. Rejection in Avoidance

**Brighter than Sunshine  
****Northern Light****  
by  
Jay's World.**

~Angsty fem slash for my Ro~

"Oh…baby."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"I can't believe it, my own daughter!"

My mother shakes her head in disbelief, my father silent on the couch. I told them to sit down, and now I'm happy about that because my mother looks like she's about to pass out. Actually, I think she did a little. And my father, well, he's turned to stone so I honestly don't know if sitting makes a difference.

But it doesn't matter, because the truth is out and there's no going back. Stone or living, livid or speechless, none of it matters because their reaction can't change me. I am who I am.

I squeeze Rosalie's hand, smiling briefly at her while she smiles weakly back. She's scared, remembering her own mother's rampage and scream fest. I know that hurt her deeply, to be rejected by her own flesh and blood, but I have to risk this.

For her, I will.

Because my baby said she loves me too.

"I-I c-I can't… _No,_" my mother finally says in disbelief. She's shaking her head and rocking back and forth. It hurts me so bad to see her like this. But what can I say to make it better?

Nothing.

My father is still stone, his eyes pensive but otherwise emotionless. I wonder what's going through his mind, but then again it can't be that hard to imagine. He's a very conservative man, raised on 'good morals and hard work'. He went to Sunday school in his youth, says his prayers before bed and asks for blessings for his meals. Whatever he's thinking, it can't be good.

"And you… How did this happen?" mom asks, directing the question to air and God.

"Mom, nothing _happened. _This is how I've always been."

Gently doesn't help, trying to soothe her doesn't aid her erratic state. She says no, this is not how I've been. I used to be a good girl, a nice girl. This isn't me. _Is it her? Did she put you up to this? _

The fight that escalates is heartbreaking, and although I'm screaming on top of my lunges, it's only to masks the sobs that's ripping up my soul.

My mother, the woman who raised me and cared for me, is shouting that _she _has corrupted me and that I need to come home before _she _does anymore damage.

_Damage._

My own mother thinks I'm broken. That I'm wrong. An abomination.

Tears are trying to break lose, but I won't let them fall. I can't show them weakness for then they'll think they're right. So I scream and shout and curse, banning them to hell for being so prejudice.

Then my dad gets to his feet, stone and livid and eyes set on my love.

He tells her to get out of _his _house and away from _his _daughter. She's not welcomed there anymore, but then I say that if she's not welcome then I won't get back. _Good,_ he yells, hand raised to slap me but my mom holds it back. She may be disappointed and angry, but she won't let him hurt me.

_Does that mean you still love me mommy? _

"Don't come back you little whore. You and that slut will burn in hell for your sins, and you will not disgrace this house anymore with your hideous presence."

When I spit in his face, I don't do it for me, I do it for her, because she is trembling and crying behind me, and she doesn't deserve to be treated like this by my family. At least when she – when _we – _told her mom, the only sound was from the trust fund being taken apart and the words that she is no longer her daughter.

For Rosalie, my love and only reason to live, I don't cry when we get home and I never flinch from the memories when she's around me, but the bitterness that's brewing inside me only rises with each day. My mother never calls, my father is dead to me and I can't show it because Rosalie is more fragile than I am. If I show hurt she'll hurt so much more because she was in so much pain for so long because of me. Because I couldn't tell her the truth.

Then the day comes when she comes home smiling, and I'm happy, I really am, because lately she's been upset that one of her kids is struggling. So when I see her smile I think that the kid is doing better, which he is, but that's not why she's smiling.

Though I know it's completely irrational and idiotic, when I hear _Demetri _is Russian, I son't trust him at all. May it be Stalin or trading business, or just plain KGB, I can't find it in my heart to fake a smile when she talks about him.

Which is all the time.

All. The. Fucking Time!

When the Center is hosting their annual Christmas party, the restaurant I'm working for is booked form left and right. I'm working 24/7 all through December, Cornell'ing salmon – making art of simple parfait and mousse and soufflé dancing in berries and **sitron melisse** – so I can't make it to the party. But I see the pictures, and I see red.

Red fury and hatred and … argh!

Can't she see? Is she that blind? God I love her with all of my heart but is her mind fogged from the past that she can't see the similarities? He's broad shouldered and tall, the body of a quarterback. Why does she always go for the jock?

Why can't she see that this is hurting me?

I love her for having friends, but for being needy and erratic when I work overtime, and I love that she has her own life, but why can't she see _why?_

So yes, I drink. And I fucking love it, because it numbs out the hurt and the pain and the rejection. And the constant yapper! Demetri this and Demetri that. Stop fucking talking about how brilliant he is, how much in common you have when you work with the kids.

It makes me realize how little I know her, how little we do together, and the bottle of Jack is my best friend.

One day I come home and she's there – _good girl – _andI'm shitfaced and angry and needy. Me, needy, that's a new one, but I need her to make me forget this. Forget the sight of them laughing and looking so fucking perfect together. Her hand on his arm and the twinkle in his eyes as he watched her. I just wanted to make things right, bringing flowers to pick her up. I was going to say "I'm sorry" and kiss her until everything was okay again, but then I turned the corner and saw them.

The flowers, colors of the rainbows, met the grey pavement when he hugged her saying 'good job'.

Yesterday I realized that I love her, but she had loved someone else once. Someone who looked just like Demetri.

Or maybe that's why she likes him, because it reminds her of a _simpler t_ime when she was loved by all.

I need to forget, I need _her _to make me forget.

So I get naked, baring myself for her so that she can see all of me, all that she owns. But even then, as I'm in my birthday suit and inviting her to take me and make me hers again, because we really do need to get fucked, she doesn't do anything.

Nothing.

And the rejection hits me like a ton of bricks on my chest.

_Am I not enough anymore, baby? _

Then when she steps forward hope bristles and smiles, but turns up-side-down as she takes a detour and lies down on the bed. Shoulders shaking and sobs wrecking through the air, she turns away from me with each seconds that she doesn't ask me to hold her.

Minutes ticks by and nothing happens; she lies silently and I stand like a fool and an asshole for making her cry. Oh why has this happened? Maybe we moved together too soon, too sure of our love and thinking that was all that was needed.

But now I know it's not, when I touch her shoulder and she kisses me; heated and laced with emotions I'm too scared to decipher, I know the issue isn't dropped and everything is _not _okay. But I give her what she searches for, embracing her in my arms as her head falls to the crook of my neck and nuzzles.

The next morning, I'm still adamant on my resolution that Demetri is Emmett in a more human form, although I don't tell her that exactly, I need to get my message across that he's not to be trusted. "He's an arrogant Russian who'll stop at nothing to end you." _End us. _"Why can't you just see it from where I'm standing, huh? I've dealt with his kind before, I know what to expect. Don't trust him, Rosalie, work with him and pretend nothing's wrong but please don't spend time with him."

Even in my head I can hear of delusional I sound, but I have to choose my words carefully so the real reason doesn't shine through. In spite of my warnings, Rosalie is able to shut me up quite easily, _you're being just as prejudice as your father, _and I can't stop my ramblings.

"Faren min, virkelig? Jeg blir presset vekk fra den eneste familien jeg har fordi jeg elsker deg, og du sier _det _til meg? Jeg er glad i faren min, jeg er glad i moren min, men jeg e_lsker _deg, og du sammenlikner meg med mannen som dyttet meg vekk fordi jeg gjør det?"

-"My father, really? I get pushed away from the only family I have because I love you and you say _that _to me? I care for my father, I care for my mother, but I _love _you, and you dare to compare me to the man who pushed me away because of that?"-

It continues as I pace back and forth, avoiding her disapproving gaze, _don't love me as much as I love you – gave everything up for you – my entire life – die for you, _until her presence is smothering and I can't breathe.

I leave, not knowing where to go or what to do. _Red's Bar _makes sense, as it is noon somewhere in the world, and the night ends in cupped feels and bear spills on my clothes. The next day isn't much different when I get off from work, spending my two free hours in shots before I have to go down to the Y and teach kids how to make food for themselves.

"Better to cook than to be a crook!"

Honestly, who comes up with these slogans?

Days go by and I work through the booze and food, delivering mediocre food that even the interns can make better, over-salting the pure and forgetting to blanche the carrots for the menus. I break more dishes than I can plate, and Andreas kicks me out before the night is even half-way through.

Canadian mastermind sees the signs, telling me to just light a joint if I feel like shit again. Don't drink, just smoke, that's his brilliant advice. Although he makes a good point, _everyone back home lights a joint at the end of the day, _so why couldn't I do too?

If I'd been straight, I would have married the guy, but that is the type of thoughts I'm afraid of, the sort I'm scared Rosalie is contemplating. After all, there are things I can't provide for her. I can marry her, have her as my wife until the end of time, but there is one thing I can't provide for her. By god, maybe that's why she's been pushing away, making me push away.

It'd be easier to just drift apart, wouldn't it? That way she couldn't make her way back to her mother's good graces and deliver the grandchildren Mrs. Hale so desperately wants. The children I know Rosalie longs for.

Even an outsider can see the light in her eyes when she talks about the kids at the Center, and it's so painfully obvious that she craves her own to nourish and raise.

Why couldn't I have been born a man? Things would have been so much easier. Less dirty looks, less discrimination, less worry. I could have loved her easier with less pain, our dreams could have been fulfilled and no parents would have to live with the suffering of knowing their children were _wrong. _

Light turns to darkness as my love turns to heartbreak.

The day wears on, dusk reflecting my heart, and Rosalie doesn't call. It's the worst form of rejection; avoidance. And I know it so well, because she _always _calls. Even when she knows I won't be home until after midnight; if she's late she calls. And it's a work day, so I know she should have been home hours ago.

Oh God, have I lost her too?

Ironically, I don't turn to the bottle. Strange how it is, when I feared she would reject me drinking was all I could do, but when she finally does I don't. But why bother? I'm already numb so it won't make a difference.

Lord, is this your way of punishing me?

What sins did I commit?

…_honor thy father and thy mother… _

…_and the man shall love the woman…_

_...thou__ shall not covet thy neighbor's wife…_

I think about my parents, who I've avoided for so long because I love Rosalie, and I wonder if I made a mistake. But no, I didn't, toss and turn it however you want, I can't take back the happy for the bad. Albeit my life has taken a turn for the worse, it's better than to live in denial and fear of getting exposed.

With Rosalie I've lived more in a few months than I have in twenty-four years. So despite the hurt I feel now, at least years from now I can look back and remember the joy and the love.

But years from now, I will still remember this picture; my tears flowing freely as I tuck myself in arms and legs on the bed. Years from now I can still recall this pain, because I know that the void my love has made in my heart will never be filled. By man or woman, it will never make me feel whole.

Then a miracle, a curse and a blessing, she comes bearing light and hope and love.

On the threshold she crumbles to the ground, as if my presence and my pain seeps through the flesh on my body and manifests in her. _Can you feel the hurt baby? Can you feel how royally we fucked up? _

"Forgive me, forgive me, I didn't know... forgive me..."

_Sweet Lord, did you hear my prayers? Was the confirmation of my faith when I was fifteen enough to earn my place in heaven? Then don't kill me, because as long as she's with me it's heaven enough. _

Forgive her? Why forgive her for something I had caused by my own sense of twisted possessiveness and insecurities? So no, my darling love, I won't forgive you because there is nothing to forgive.

"I love you. Don't ever doubt it. Ever."

I speak with sincerity, knowing she understands my plead. Because this is my plead, for her to know I will never chose anyone over her, that she is my life and my reason to go on. she owns me, as she gives herself in a searing kiss that binds our souls as one in eternity.

Fragile and stumbling, we intertwine form our broken lives to create one whole that will hopefully carry us both.

Legs hooking over each other, calves locked, nuzzling necks and arms clawing on backs, we retire to the bed in exhaustion, promises of talking and resolution left aside until tomorrow. For now we're content to exist in temporary bliss.

"Jeg skal finne en mate å gi deg alt. Du fortjener det. Månen og stjernene. Et barn, fem, tusen, uansett hvor mange og hvor lang tid det tar, så vil jeg finne en måte å vise at du er alt. Min menig med livet. Selv om det betyr at jeg ikke kan være i ditt. "

-"I'll find a way to give you everything. You deserve it. The moon and the stars. A child, five, a thousand, no matter how many and how long it takes, I will find a way to show you that you are everything. The meaning of my life. Even if it means I can't be in yours. "-

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**A Viking's Note**

I'm sorry it took me so long to get this up, but I didn't have time to write until today - strangely not embarassed to write all of this for the world to see - so I give you the vikings view of tomernting pain.

Oh the pain!


	4. Where I'm Not Enough, I Give Up

**Brighter than Sunshine  
****Northern Light**

**by  
Jay's World**

~No matter where you are, Ro~

"Oh...just…baby."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Norsken din suger, man. Seriøst, lærte ikke mammaen din deg noe?"

-"Your Norwegian sucks, man. Seriously, didn't your mama ever teach you anything?"-

Although Jakob is just my second cousin, we're very tight knitted. From the womb, we were inseparable despite the Atlantic keeping us apart, 'cause we're practically twins. Well, I'm ten minutes older than him – which I bask in – but since we first met we've always been somewhat close. It started when I was five and his mother took him to Norway where she still had a house, and my own mother drove down to meet her. They were cousins, estranged for years and sea, but the annual visits kept them in touch. Just like me and Jake.

However, we don't look like twins. No, while I am tall with my 5'10'' and Nordic with fair skin and light eyes, he is my opposite; 6'5'' and broadly build, an exotic look in his shiny black hair and dark eyes. Standing next to each other we're nothing alike, but once we open our mouths you can see the family traits running deep to the bone.

Both intense in love and life, passionate about our careers and loyal 'til death.

Sarcastic and teasing, we've always been in each other's hair and never served anything with a silver spoon. We're crude and foul mouthed, however I'm the only one who can pull it off in our native tongue.

Jake's mom was born in bread in Norway, but went to Mexico for her senior school trip. Basically, she never really returned. It was love at first sight, meeting Raoul she found her one and only love, and settled there with him. Jake doesn't look a bit like her though, as she still looks like a slightly more tanned Viking that burns in the sun, but she's passed on the traditions.

Christening.

Confirmation.

Norwegian.

Hell she even made sure he has his citizenship in order. I envy him that, to be of two completely different cultures.

Though he can still use some language classes, 'cause I can beat his ass rotten in the cussing game.

"Yeah yeah, shut up you…you…gah! See what you've done? _Loca,_" he grumbles into the phone, making me snort. I always win. "So what time are you picking me up anyways? I can't wait to see my favorite lil' Cuz!"

"Little, Jake? Do I need to remind you—"

"_-you're ten minutes older than me, _yada yada yada. Shut it woman, I've heard it before!"

I chuckle. "And you will again. But to answer your question, I'll say around six?"

"Okay short stuff. Love you!"

When I hang up, Rosalie is standing in the hallway eyeing me curiously, like she has been a lot lately. Not that I can blame her, I'd be suspicious too if she was going around having secret phone calls in a foreign language.

"Who was that, honey?" she asks, stepping closer and kissing my cheek.

I feel awful, for lying and betraying her like this, but it's something I have to do. Omission and straight out lying is the only words that comes out of my mouth lately, like when we went to Central Park and had our relationship blessed by the Bethesda Fountain angel. While she asked for hopes for the future, I stayed silent and prayed to God he'd make the pain go away.

But then, when I was alone with her those first weeks, I was on a mission. Selfish reasons yes, but a part of me wanted to experience the world with her, even if that world would be restricted to our queen sized bed that kept us so close. Now though, I realize I'd done wrong.

I'd held her so close, only making it harder to leave.

I tell her it was friends from work – the work I've quit and avoided – and she looks so pleased. She likes me having friends, and I urge her to go out to be with her own. The lie of the night is that I'm going to a bar, when in truth I'm going to see Jake.

My only hope is that she won't smell him on me when I get home, because I don't intend on leaving his arms at any point of the night.

When I see him at the airport, the night has already settled in, and I throw myself into his arms. To a bystander, it can look like a lover's reunion with how I won't let him go and sob into his chest, but I'm just so damn happy to see him and so scared because I know what it means.

He's here to take away half of my things, and with it half of my heart.

At the hotel, he props himself against the headboard and orders every piece of junkfood and ice cream from room service, calling for two pizzas too. Pineapple isn't gay, I should know, because I am.

"You still eat that disgusting shit?" he frowns and acts like he's gagging at the sight of my Hawaii pizza topped with chocolate ice cream, caramel sauce and tutti frutti sprinkles.

No one hates on the Pizzice.

Not even Ro.

And then the sob-fest begins, and my arms almost fall asleep that's how hard I hold on to him. He's bigger since the last time I saw him, three years ago when I still lived in Norway, but he's cut his hair again so maybe that's why his biceps looks like truck tires.

Ro is lanky, can't even change a tire if she tried.

"I don't want to leave her!" I cry.

"Then don't. You know this is completely ridiculous Loca, and I hate to see you cry. You never cry, not even when Petter pushed you off that slide when we were fucking ten! Don't do this, Alice, it's hurting you too much."

But he doesn't understand, he never can. Where we think perfectly alike on everything from politics to knitting, there is one aspect he can't broach. He can give the woman of his dreams kids, a family, whereas I cannot. A part of me understands that I'm being drastic, but I can't see another way.

Adoption could work, but with my slightly tainted police record it would be even harder that a criminal, work-addicted lesbian could ever be a good role model. It's not like I ever hurt anyone, it was just disruption of peace when I got drunk one night and picked a fight at a local bar. Nothing big, but I knew it would get harder since I was charged.

My inability to give her a family, my insecurities about our love, my failure to be what she needs, is the reasons that have made my decisions.

I'm leaving, and Jake leaves with bags and bags of my thing, my life packed in plastic.

And yet my true life remains. In the form of a short blonde whose dreams are greater than I can ever suffice to give.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

People say that on the most important days of their lives, they can remember every single detail. Even old men and wives can remember what they wore, quote themselves flawlessly in a manner which I believe is astonishing. The first time they fell in love, the first born child, the death of a loved one.

Clothe, scents, weather, it's all small details that are written down in the history of great minds of survivors.

I am not great.

Years from now, I can't look back and remember what she wore, or the exact feeling of her hands ghosting my sides.

Only one detail haunts me, the scent of freshly baked Apple Cake, the first thing I ever made on my own. The measurements, the exact bronze color of the top, the feel of burning on my fingertips as I brush against the plate before shutting the oven door. These are the things I will remember…

Not the clothes she wore, if her hair was up or down, or if the smile on her face was filled with lust or just serentity.

I'm baking, making her favorite cake which I've made dozens of times over the past months.

Almost a year now. But never closer, just almost.

Just as I take the cake out and place it to cool off, I hear her feet on the floor, but don't turn. Right now, I'm unsure if I'll break down and tell her the truth. Could I do that? Leave her like a soldier and not a coward…

My answer comes easily as I'm attacked by her plumb lips, catching me off guard with her forwardness. But no, not now, I need to control this, otherwise I might regret the words that will leave my mouth.

Covered in my only reminder, flour and the sweet scent of sweat, lust and craving hanging thick around us, I plead to God for redemption, through my rough kisses and teeth clattering against moans.

Thankfully, we stop, just a little, giving me more time to remember her body, the soft curves of stomach and hips and calves, cleaning her virtue and innocence as she so eagerly tries the same.

Oh Ro, I am not innocent.

Oh love, I only sin.

In our bedroom, the same one I first made love with her, she takes control, moving her body above mine like a lioness ready to take her prey. I beg, with my eyes and moans and arching back, I beg for her to take me. This one time, I want her to feel what it's like to own someone with the tip of your tongue, their pleasure depending on your willingness to give.

Mine.

Yours.

Always.

She gives, touches, ghosting fingertips over filthy skin. Always so giving, so nurturing, so teasing with her gentle ways, having me at breaking point just by her soft breath of my heated flesh. To nibble, suck, flick, lick, stroke up and down through slick slits, to the space craving so desperately to be filled by her.

Only her.

Always.

Such a bittersweet moment, when I came around her, on her, for her, with her, sensing the familiar and possessive nature of which she allowed me to enjoy her pleasure. She was claiming, just like I had done nine months ago.

Nine months.

The number brings me to unshed tears in the recollection that the time could have been used for her future. Children, once again, I sulk silently to myself.

Tangled legs are covered in sheets, and I inhale the lavender and vanilla scents of her skin, now flushed with the tips of sate and love. Holding on, her head on my chest and my arms surrounding her, I say my final goodbye.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

My Ro.

You deserve diamonds… I hope I said that enough, because it's the only rule in life I live by.

Nevertheless, as I've come to realize over the past couple of weeks, the most precious diamond is something I can't provide for you.

What you crave the most, possibly more than me, is something that _I _can never give you. And I know you, more than you realize, so I know you will never be truly happy without a child of your own. Children is something you can only share with someone else, 'cause you'd be the one to carry it to life. You know me, baby, I don't have the patience for that. You're the one who needs the glow, I only want to bask in it.

I know my actions seems selfish, like I'm running away from responsibility and family, but I just need you to know that I'm not doing this for me, I'm doing it for you. I want you to have a family, to find someone you can love without feeling ashamed or prohibited to share your feelings with like we constantly have to. That is not our fault, but at this time it's not something we can change.

Someday, I hope I'll meet you again and see that you're living the life I wish for you to have. Because I do love you, please never doubt that, but our love isn't enough to survive the troubles that lies ahead. Our recent setbacks have shown we're not enough to stand on our own, so you can imagine the obstacles we'd meet had I stayed and found a child with you.

My words seem harsh, I'm sorry for that, but I'm afraid there's no other way to leave you. If I have to face you, I'll only stay and prolong the hurt. If I stay, you'll see just how much this hurts me.

Be safe, be magnificent, be yourself, it's the only way I know you'll be happy.

Always love,  
Alice.

* * *

**A Viking's Note..**

For those who have already read Ro's POV [which you always should, shame on you if you haven't!] I have clearly left out the ending of this exact scene…the morning after and all that nonsense. Right now, it's getting a little emotional to write, my tissue box empty and all, so I'm gonna go re-stock on those and then start on chapter 5, which Ro so efficiently have posted on both FFN and TWCS. Link on my profile ;)

It's 10pm…pot dark, and I keep mistaking the reflection of my lights for the moon.

Nighty night ;)


	5. Lost in Memories and Heartache

**Brighter than Sunshine  
****Northern Light**

**by  
Jay's World**

~We're transatlantic, crossing borders with lost love to be found~

"Baby, no…"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

_She's so peaceful as the moonlight dances across her body, naked with the white covers barely c__overing her skin. I sigh, walking up the bed and grasping the covers, my one last good dedp to her. The letter has already been placed, my feet remarkably silent tonight as she does not stirr. _

_Of all nights, this has to be the one. _

_With a chaste kiss on her forehead, I swear to myself I will not cry._

_Clicking the door shut, I don't stray._

_Leaving my key on the coffee table, I stay dry._

_Pausing by the door one last time, I don't weep._

_Outside the door, I numb completely. _

-.-.-.-

The darkness has a way of tricking you, cruel as it is it creates shadows and forms you mistake for reality. A dumb fool trapped in a dark room; that is me. I see her all the time, you know, it doesn't even have to be something that reminds me of her, like a blonde or a cute smile or a shy blush. I can see her everywhere; the occasional time I look outside the window I can see her standing on the street, playing with a child and laughing warmly.

But there's nothing there when I blink.

Or like now, while I press my legs to my chest and rest my head on my knees; that I've just seen her legs tangled with mine in the thin sheets. Exhaling slowly, I try to calm myself. The panic attack isn't severe, not really, I've had worse, it's just the shock from just one minute thinking everything is normal; happy, and then realizing I'm living in hell.

Without my Ro.

Then there's the nightmares, where she's the star, shining darkly in blood that covers her bare body. Looking like sin and hell and beauty wrapped in one. And I'm running, but not moving, getting further away with each step I take. She's dying, and I can't save her.

Because I'm too far away I can't save her from the dark creature that mauls her body, her cries waking me.

Jake doesn't even bother coming in to my room anymore to shake me awake, realizing it's something that won't go away with his gentle rocking and soft tunes singing.

_Når trollmor har lagt sine elleve små troll, og bundet dem fast i halen/ Da synger hun sagte for elleve små troll de vakreste ord hun kjenner/ O-ai-ai-ai-ai-buff, o-ai-ai-ai-ai-buff, o-ai-ai-ai-ai-buff-buff, o-ai-ai-ai-ai-buff!_

_-When mama troll has put her eleven young to bed, and tied them all to their tails /She sings so softy for her eleven young with the most loving words/ O-ai-ai-ai-ai-buff, o-ai-ai-ai-ai-buff, o-ai-ai-ai-ai-buff-buff, o-ai-ai-ai-ai-buff!-_

The lullaby my mother used to sing for me, but alas, it helps sometimes. Calms me, letting my breathing settle and the tears stop flowing. He always stays, attempting comfort in his buff arms that circle me with security and love, but it only reminds me of Emmett.

Is he holding her like this right now?

I stand up and pull a loose shirt over my head, padding barefoot to the kitchen. It's noon now, and the sun is shining so brightly and hot that my alabaster skin practically burns through the window glass. I haven't been burnt yet though, but then again I'd have to be outside for that.

It's been six months since I arrived at the doorstep and threw myself in Jake's arms, chanting over and over again, _it's over – it's over, _and I've yet to go outside. I can see the sun through the many windows, and often stand for hours just looking out on the street, but I don't go outside.

Call it laziness, call it paranoia, but I just don't. I'm afraid of the world, afraid if I let myself live it will all go away. The pain. I love the pain, not like a masochist but like a sinner taking the punishment because they know they deserve it. I revel in the memories, though they haunt me they remind me that it's real. The pain makes it true, and I know the love was true as well. And I can take the pain, because I have loved.

But it's a two-edged knife, tearing me apart and reminding me all at once.

-.-.-.-

"_Miss Brandon, is there a problem?"_

_I look up at the woman, who looks nice and pretty, and shrug, muttering no before leaning over the counter. "Not really, I just, what time do I land again?"_

"_Nine am, Miss. Would you like to upgrade to first class? We just got an opening."_

_I'm about to say yes, but hold my tongue, my eyes catching the site of a football jersey. I freeze, thrown back to a memory of the homecoming dance in high school. Emmett's smiling, and leans down to kiss Rosalie. _

"_Miss?"_

"_Actually, can I change my ticket?"_

"_Sure, Miss, where would you like to go?"_

"_Seattle."_

-.-.-.-

"You need to eat, Alice."

Jacob is standing in my room – _his_ guestroom, technically – with what I'm sure is a plate full of my favorites. I can smell the watermelon even, the green tea and the scrambled eggs that once would have made my mouth water. Instead of accepting his caring gesture I just push my head further into the pillow. Now a day, it's easier to forgo anything that gives me energy.

Pathetic I'm sure, but it's better to take the nightmares than to feel the days going by. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, I'm too malnourished to even dream.

Those are the best of days.

"I'm not leaving Alice" he threatens with a sigh.

"You have work in fifteen minutes," I grumble.

"I'm the boss, I think I can swing it," he counters, and I feel the covers being ripped from my body. "Jesus, Loca, you're all skin and bones. Where's the Alice I know and love?"

I wonder that sometimes too.

This isn't how life was supposed to go, how I'd end up: in filthy Mexico living in a two room apartment with my cousin, who force feeds me daily and waking up screaming from deadly nightmares. I wasn't supposed to fall in love, or let it get to the point that being away from her kills me. And I damn sure wasn't supposed to be broke, with no job, and no life.

That just wasn't me.

But I guess, now it is.

Jake has been wonderful though, putting up with my sorry ass for nearly a year now, never complaining about my nightmares or self inflicted starvation. Not once, contrary to my loving aunt who has repeatedly yelled at me to get it together. She doesn't visit me much anymore though, but I can still hear the muffled voices of them talking in the other room when she comes by.

_She's sick, son, she can't stay here. _

_I don't care if she's my cousin's daughter, blood is not always thicker._

_Get it together, Jakob, you're wasting away with her. You're just too loving._

Her words are like a knife repeatedly being thrust into my chest, twisted and tangled until it's impossible to remove. It stays with me, only adding to the pain; knowing I'm hurting my family.

Mommy.

Daddy.

I miss them, so badly I cry again.

And yet, none of it comes close to the heartache of leaving Rosalie.

-.-.-.-

"_Will you please do this for me?"_

"_Why, Alice, you finally find out you couldn't love her__ properly?"_

"_Please, don't be this way."_

"_Why not? You practically stole her from me. Do you know for how long she tried to hide it? Ever since you moved to Forks, she started to dream about you. Didn't know that, did you? She used to say your name…in her sleep. Why the fuck do you think I even came up with that fucking list? Why do you think I cheated on her? How many nights, Alice, how many nights would you have endured hearing the love of your life saying someone else's name?"_

_I hung my head in shame. _

_Not one. _

_I would have broken down and gone to the darkness if she had. _

"_I'm not asking for explanations or excuses. You did a shitty thing, no matter what, she loved you. Loves you…still."_

"_So that's why you're doing this? You think she'll come back to me now that's she's without you?"_

"_I know she will."_

-.-.-.-

"That's it, get out."

His voice is stern and commanding, the one I often have heard him using on the phone to his employees. Although the boy I grew up with was all about smiles and laughs, the man Jakob's become is serious when needed to be. And right now, it seems like it's.

I snap my head up from staring at the bowl of cereal, and see his eyes blazing with determination. Immediately, I'm frightened, scared of the unknown and braze myself for that's to come.

"Get out?" I ask incredulously, because I know he's not kicking me out of his place. He just can't.

"Yes, get out, I don't want you in here. Get out, catch some sun, make a few friends, for fucks sake; get a job! I'm sick and fucking tired of seeing your ass waste away just for some girl…"

I don't even counter his comment. S_he not just some girl. She's the love of my life!_

"…and mope all day. The Alice I know and love laugh at the suckers to fall in love and cries when it fucks up. The Alice _I used to know _would snap out of this and fucking live! I love you, I really do, but for my sanity as much as yours, you need to get your life straight."

His words rip through me, and my soul opens up, baring the small black heart of mine.

But he's right, the Alice he used to know did laugh at romance and love, but she was a creature who'd never been loved and never had loved. She has been cold, a cynic, a 'I don't want to watch no fucking chickflick!'.

But she was gone, left in Forks with Jasper.

She'd been replaced, year ago she'd been swapped with a new person.

The Alice I am now believed in love because I'd felt it. And lost it. And now I cried with the morons when love fucked up.

I fucked up.

Like always, but this time I was hurting Jakob too.

He takes me to California, setting everything up so I can get a work visa in Mexico. He's brilliant like always, taking care of me and makes me promise to be good. Like a little girl, but I let him reprimand me as much as he likes, though of course he doesn't since he's Jakob.

Driving back into the city, we pass the sign welcoming us back.

And the irony of it all, I live in Rosarito Beach…

* * *

**A Viking's Note**

Seems like Ro's is ahead of me, already up with chapter 6 of BtS, so I'll try to catch up! : )

Leave a review at the door.


	6. Seasons Change,  I Do Not

**Brighter than Sunshine  
****Northern Light**

**by  
Jay's World**

~I am nothing without you, without my life and love~

"Baby, I miss you"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

I can't help but smile at the cat calls, and sway my hips a little extra as I pass the construction workers. How can I not? Don't give a crap about the "sexual objectifying" - it's a validation of my good looks.

'Cause I look better.

And two months ago they didn't even notice me passing them.

So I cheer for them, flirt with them, smile at them a little extra when I'm in the mood and it makes their day. Like it does to me. For a second before it passes. Until I think back to New York and the numerous work sites I used to pass with Ro – putting on a show to make her smile at my silliness. She looked so beautiful when she smiled.

I miss those.

But I go on, I try at least.

When Jakob first forced me to go outside, the sun had blinded me harshly, and after just one day I was cardinal red all over. But he got me out, he got me a work visa, and he even got me a job.

It's not prestigious, it's not something I'd ever see myself working it, and it's not a tenth of what my education is worth. But still, it's me through and through. It's called Pepe's, and it doesn't house more than twenty-five seating's and seven by the counter, and on a good day we get maybe one hundred customers, but the flow is steady and the people are amazing.

I don't work more than four days a week, two of which I'm a waitress – and I always hated working as a waitress before – while the other two I work in the kitchen.

Yet, it's challenging.

I can make parfait in my sleep, I can cook a sufflé perfectly with one hand tied behind my back, and I can paint a plate like the fricking Sistine Chapel, but it took me a well month to perfect tamale. I still get complaints on my chili casseroles, but nothing more than it needing to be spicier. But for me that is challenging – Norway doesn't specialize in spicy and hot, so while hot sauce burns my tongue, I'm left unable to taste the rich chili and sweet peppers.

Behind the counter I hold back my remarks, my venomous comments to idiot customers with idiotic statements. I poor coffee – though I personally can't understand the appeal with this heat – and I wipe down tables.

This is work, this occupies my mind, and almost eight hours out of my day I am a machine on auto pilot doing what I'm supposed to do. I cook, I love it, and it fills half of the void in my heart.

The other half is crumbled to pieces.

Their voices fade into the background as I near the shop, and the door jingles when I go in to the front desk.

"Hi Pablo," I cheer and kiss the man's cheek. As always, he blushes under his thin, white beard.

"Miss Alice, always such a charmer. Jakob's in the back."

"Thank you, Pablo" I reply and go around to the back, or technically the garage. It's filled with cars, parts, tools, and filth. The men stand around in blue overalls tucked around their waists – some shirtless, some with – and their heads turn as the door slams shut.

Once they see me, they quickly shy away.

Do I intimidate them?

Or do they know what I really am?

Or is it a hidden warning not to hit on the boss' family?

The big garage door is open, letting the evening sun in and the cool wind strife. Jakob rolls out from under a beat up-looking car, and smiles when he sees me.

"Alice, what'cha doing her, Loca?" he asks and hugs me tightly, getting grim all over my t-shirt. I don't care, it's old.

"Do I need an excuse to stop by your work?"

"Yes," he laughs.

I chuckle and lean back against a table. "Your mom came by the diner today, asked us over to dinner next week. Something about a birthday."

He frowns slightly, thinking, "What date is it next Monday?"

"The twenty-first. March."

Realization hits his eyes, and smiles brightly. "Benito Juarez's birthday."

"A friend of yours?" I ask, and tilt my head to the side.

"No, no. He was a president in the 19th century. His birthday is an official holiday. Every year my mom gets together this big cook-out in the back yard with a piñata, cake, she goes all out. God, mama's cook-outs are the best. We're going."

"Okay then."

When I leave the garage, Jakob is gone to the front desk whereas I exit through the open door – and I hear his guys whispering behind me. They sound harsh, low and angry, and I peek over my shoulder to see Eli scowling at me.

I shudder.

The old me would have told him off.

But there is no fight left in me.

So I go home, I smile on the way, but collapse against the front door as it shuts. My dry heave, I break out in sobs, and I know I'm being completely irrational; his distaste with me shouldn't provoke these feelings, but I can't help but wonder…

Emmett, did he take her back as easily as I dream he would?

Emmett, does he look her with the same disgust for knowing what she truly is?

Emmett, did you keep your promise?

On Monday, I get my answer.

I drink, I eat, but most of all I drink until Jakob's on-the-other-side-of-the-family cousins looks attractive. The women, not the men – they still hold no interest in me. How I could ever get aroused when being with Jasper still confuses me. No, that's a lie; I always thought of girls.

Even Megan Fox during my Terminator-addiction period.

I'd imagine her naked body on display for me, moaning beneath my fingers, calling my name…

Or _her, _seeing her shy smiles that could taut my nipples to a point where I'd push Jasper against the wall in the need of release.

I must have been a very overly sexual teenager, thinking back to those days, but who's to say I wasn't ready? I felt ready, I felt strong enough… But God how wrong I was. I shouldn't have used him, I shouldn't have used him and thought of her… That was wrong, I know that now. But it's too late and the damage is done.

Sometimes I wonder how he is too. Last time I saw him I was in Forks collecting the rest of my things from my house – mom and dad were out on business – and I had stopped by the bar for a drink. It was only eleven pm, but he was being kicked out. I don't even think he saw me. Later that night I heard the rumors about him being a drunk – and fuck if I didn't feel bad about it. Maybe it's arrogant to think it, but I can't help but keep myself responsible.

He did love me a lot. Hell, I think his love for me was close to the love I feel for…_her. _

So when dusk falls and Auntie's guests go home, I leave Jakob with a local girl named Leah, and head home alone. Returning to darkness.

And my phone.

4-1-1 gets the number which I write down on my hand.

It rings four times before I hear the click and his disoriented voice.

"Is she there?"

A bed squeekes and I hear feet paddling on hardware floor, a door closing and more walking.

"What do you want, Alice?"

"Is she there? Did you leave you bed to talk?"

My heart rips open with the silence he provides, and I sink to the floor with my legs pulled up to my chest.

"Please, Emmett, is she there?"

"You're not going to talk to her. You're not going to know how she is. I'm not telling you a single fucking thing."

"Please…I, please just tell me if she's okay."

He sighs in defeat and keeps silent for a minute. It's eerie.

"She – She's not my Rose anymore. She's not the same girl I loved in High School."

"High School is almost a decade ago."

"Still. She's different."

It's my turn to sigh. "But is she well?"

"She's okay, I guess. She, fuck, she has nightmares. Is that what you want to hear, Alice? She calls your fucking name in her sleep and wakes up crying. I pretend to be asleep because I know her and she doesn't want the attention, but fuck, the love of my life is crying _your _name in her sleep."

I don't know how to respond, but I don't have to.

"And she walks around like a ghost sometimes. Like she doesn't care what's going on around her. She acts tough, but I can see that she's hurting. What the fuck did you do to her, Alice?"

My head hangs in shame.

_Our legs entangled, fingers electrified with the same passion we've always had. Her lips smiling in her sleep, but frowning as I pull away. __Deepening as I put my clothes on. Her nose twitching as I kiss her head, savoring the scent of her one last time._

_Goodbye._

I left her without a proper goodbye. But I know it's for the best, had I broken up with her face-to-face then she would have cried and I would have stayed to prolong the inevitable pain.

"I…"

"You know what, Alice, fuck you. Fuck you and your fucking high horse. Don't call this number again, and don't you fucking dare get near my Rosie again. Her life is good now, she's normal and that's how she's going to stay."

We don't say goodbye, and the dial tone is like Satan's cruel laugh in my ear.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The rest of the year goes by like time does, slowly some days while others pass without my notice.

In July I move out from Jakob's and I find my own apartment not far from him. He doesn't say a single thing to me, but I know my presence is a burden. He and Leah are serious, not just the "no I love you more" puppy love stage, and not in the old married couple fighting stage either. They're perfect. They're in sync. They are harmonized.

It pains me to see them together all the time, since she spends most of her time with him – and evidently me – and the flashbacks are getting worse. First it was just small things, like seeing them together in the kitchen making food, and then suddenly seeing myself and _her _standing side by side covered in flour.

Then…well, then it went back to before Jakob straightened me out – I slept longer, I missed work, and I saw her face fucking everywhere.

So I'm moving out, and I see the light in Leah's eyes involuntary light up when I hand over my key. It doesn't hurt me, but it feels a little empty to be alone again. At least before I had Jakob to keep me company in my darkest hours.

"Don't worry, Cuz," he smiles, "we're coming over for dinner next week. Better dish up something good, you might be the chef but I'm the critique." He winks and laughs, then fades into the background.

Months pass and I see them often, but not enough. I'm alone most of the time and my personal independence is bothering me. I always did things on my own as a child – rode my bike to soccer practice since I was eight, walked up to the mountain to ski by myself, cooked cleaned and lived almost without any interference from my parents.

It's a loneliness I used to relish in when I was younger, but now, all grown up and seeing the world with new eyes, I realize I pushed myself away from society long before it rejected me.

I don't want to be alone.

I miss the warmth of _her _body next to mine, holding me, embracing me.

I miss the sound of her breathing as she slept, always alerting me of her presence.

I miss her.

I miss her.

But I can't have her.

Summer turns to autumn and the leaves change, but the weather doesn't.

Where is the snow?

Where is the cold?

Leah is pregnant and I sit in amongst everyone else to see their reunion – but almost cry at the sight of the small bump on her stomach. And I know, I just know that when that day comes for my…_Emmett's Rosie, _that she will look just as radiant and extraordinary.

She is the perfect mother. Nurturing. Loving. Protective.

I envy, I lust, but my skin does not burn inside this church.

Halloween passes, Thanksgiving passes on the other side of the border, but time almost seems to stand still here. The temperature hardly shifts, and the people are the same day in and day out.

I poor coffee, I wait tables, I wipe down the counter, I smile and take orders, I flip burgers and perfect my Chili.

I go on, but only in body, my mind and heart staying put. They still live in New York, with _her. _My memory ravels in the image of her, the sound of her, the smell of her. It's been two years over Christmas, and on Christmas Eve I'm shocked back into a fading memory.

_I toss my keys on the table in the hallway, shrug off my coat, and ruffle snow out of my hair. It's a little wet, but the spikes are still in place. They bother me a little, although Ro continues to tell me they look hot, I miss my long hair from when I was younger. Maybe I should grow it out. _

_It's been a busy day at the restaurant, the floor double-booked for all the New Yorkers who opt to eat out on Christmas Eve. I feel bad for leaving Ro to herself, but have a plan to make it up to her. _

_The apartment is stark black and I flick on a lamp to see where I'm going, and trot off to our bedroom. _

_What I see makes me freeze mid-step, my jaw slack down, saliva pool in my mouth, and my entire body is on full alert. _

_She's standing naked, eyes wide as if she's been caught doing something bad, right between the bed and the dresser. _

_Naked. _

_Bare. _

_Perfect. _

_She rights herself up to stand straight, and her tits jut out with a soft bounce, and the movement makes me stare. Her nipples are rosy red and perky, her round orbs full and soft from the look. My eyes roam her body, from the delicacy of her ankles, up her long sensual legs, halting at her bare center, continuing up her taut stomach and breasts, before landing on her face. _

_Angelic. _

_Her eyes narrow with lust, and I shut my mouth quickly, and practically pounce on her. My mouth on hers, moaning loudly as if it was my first kiss, our tongues pushing and roaming. Her hands trace the hemline of my shirt, and silently asks to take it off. _

"_Undress me," I say husky and low, and stand still as she works around me, pulling up my shirt and moving the straps of my bra to the side and down, unclasping it. She takes one of my nipples in her hot mouth, and my hands fly to her hair, fisting it and pushing it further against me. _

"_Uh, uh" she reprimands playfully, and her dominance only turns me on further. I love her obedient, beneath me, but the sight of her owning me on her terms makes my heart swell. So I stand still again, breathing harshly as she kisses my neck and pop the button of my jeans. She sinks before me, kneeling as she pulls them down with my underwear, and I am her equal. _

_Equally naked._

_Equally bare. _

_She leans forward and kisses me right over my center, and the vibrations of muffled words send a jolt through my spine. _

"_What was that?"_

_She doesn't answer, but used her hand to spread my feet more apart; giving her access. The vibrations continue as her tongue swipes over my bundle of nerves, her hands running up and down my thighs until one of them sneak up to separate my folds. I moan and grab her hair once more, and this time she lets me. _

_Her tongue follows the path of her fingers, and they work me hard and slow, going in and out of me painfully passionately. __Her love drips from her lips as they ravish me, claim me, love me. _

_Feeling unprepared for this kind of adoration, I come fast and loud, and my knees buckle beneath me. I fall backwards onto the bed, bouncing up again a little, and Ro follows quickly, straddling my legs. _

_Above me, she is Aphrodite, a goddess of love and perfection. _

_Then, she smiles shyly with a small blush, whispering, "I said, Merry Christmas."_

I wake up panting, from the dream, and look around disoriented.

Where is she?

"Ro?" I call out, wondering why she's not lying next to me.

"Ro!" I call again, afraid that she might be hurt.

Then I realize, clapping down on my single bed, that it's not made for two. Just one. Me. Because she is not here to lie next to me.

"Ro," I sob, and the tears follow quickly. "_Merry Christmas._"

* * *

**A Viking's Note**

This update is long overdue so I figured a little Christmas special was in order. Don't forget to check out Ro's side of the story (link on my profile) and then when you're done with that, just head on over to the Double-Wide with Eddie an Rie.

If that didn't make sense, here's the recc's I have for you:

**Dead Confederates – Goldenmeadow **

**Avalanche – Rose Masen Cullen **

**Men Without Eyes – danieller123**

**A Thousand Leaves – BellaSunshine**

Merry Christmas to you all – and I'll be keeping you all in mind as I greedily unwrap my presents on Christmas Eve : )


	7. What if?

**Brighter than Sunshine  
****Northern Light**

**by  
Jay's World**

This is too late to be acceptable. My deepest apologies. I suck.  
I hope this makes up for the delay and massive glip in inspiration,  
and there are more to come!

Unbeta'd. Enlighten me of any errors (I'm sure there's some lurking around)

Love you, Ro!

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Time heals all wounds.

Jake tells me so all the time.

I can see it in his eyes that he doubts it, but he's compelled to think so. If not, then what does he and Leah have to hold on to? Nothing. That day, they lost love and almost each other. Jake slept on my couch for a while, like I had on his when I needed help. Who was I to deny him the same help?

They fought so much. "It's your fault." He thought so too. But it wasn't. Leah knew that too, but was grieving and saying the wrong things.

Time heals all wounds.

Maybe, maybe not.

Therapy helps though. For them, at least.

But what do they have?

Only the smallest grave in the world. A dead son, a painful memory, a string of "what if's" flying around.

What if they'd gone to the hospital sooner? What if they'd gone for the C-section? What if they'd seen the truck heading straight for them?

What if?

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

My new house sucks. It does. It's too American and rich. We have a foyer, for Pete's sakes! We don't need three floors, we don't need a winter garden, and we don't need a garage with a makeshift apartment slash "hangout"-spot (my mother… she sucks). Back home we had two floors in a simple middle-sized house. It was red, with a small back yard, and we only had one guest bedroom. We had _one_ bathroom, although big and good enough for the three of us.

My backyard was big enough for the trampoline and the sandbox I spent most of my childhood years in.

Though the luxury is impressive, I can't see the meaning of an inside pool.

My room is the size of our old living room, hosting a TV, a king-sized bed, a walk-in closet, a desk, the works. The walls are painted some white-ish color my mom calls cappuccino, though it doesn't remind me of coffee at all.

The rest of the house is just as fricking extravagant, with its modern and classical arts hung up on the walls, vases on pedestals not at all made for holding flowers, and French words used for furniture I don't see the meaning of.

It's like walking into one of those lifestyle magazines…or is it Good Living?

I've never lived as comfortable, and yet all I want is to go home.

Home to Norway.

Home to reality.

Home to truth!

I try to talk to my mom, but her hand always comes up to stop me when I talk Norwegian. What's wrong with her? Why can't I be myself? Why do they force me to pretend?

"Why are we living in this hick town, if you work in Seattle? It doesn't make sense."

"Because we don't want you to be spoiled, hon." I can't hold back my snort. "And we think you'll be more comfortable living in a tight-knit community than a big city. And the crime rates! Don't get me started on that. This town's only records of crime is limited to speeding and the occasional car accident."

The plan is that dad will commute. Weekdays he lives in an apartment in the city, while he lives here on the weekends. The house just feels more empty.

There's an echo every time I walk down the stairs.

Each time, my heart feels more hollow.

The end of the summer passes without me leaving the house. I go out in the garden when mom nags too much, but I don't feel like "exploring" Forks at all. It's a shitty little town, and I can't wait to move away. Three years is all I have left, anyways. Three years of torture until it's time to go home.

Home.

This is just a house. Home is where the heart is. This is nowhere near that.

School starts and it's nothing eventful. Though the high school system here is a very different, it doesn't take more than two days before I'm used to it. Late comings is a huge no-no, and it's a lot stricter than it was back home. Every teacher is Mr., Mrs., or Ms. School spirit is high and if you're not into it you're viewed as unpatriotic.

The girls are stupid and small. Seriously, they're tiny. Even though my classmates are only sixteen, they still look younger. Four feet five girls are coming. My five feet, seven inches is gigantic to them. I have books, though they only fill a small c-cup, and yet the boys look at me like I'm Tyra Banks or some bullshit.

I'm an outsider immediately. The Norwegian girl. Or, a personal favorite: the Swede.

Classes are easy. At one point I even contemplate dropping out and taking a GED, but my mom refuses to let me do so. So I zone out in class, I never listen, and still I make straight A's.

But there are highlights in this hell.

A girl from back home is doing a year abroad, and lives in Tulsa. Though we can't meet, it still gives me some sort of comfort to know I'm not the only Norwegian girl in this country. A few emails are exchanged now and then, but eventually I even lose her.

I'm all alone.

The friends I have are just…clueless and immature. They talk about boys and sex like they're five year old. By homecoming, two girls are knocked up. One goes through with an abortion, while the other is taken out from school.

No one hears from her.

I'm glad it won't happen to me.

I'm not looking for a boyfriend.

I'm watching someone else.

Rosalie Hale.

A highlight.

She's the one little girl I want.

Four feet, eight inches. Dull flat hair and barely-there curves. But her looks are not what draws me in. Her smile – when she does smile – lights up the room. Her laugh is adorable. She's smart.

Because the school is so small we share almost half of all our classes. In every single one of them I try to sit as close to her as possible. I stare, I daydream.

At night, I think of her as I slide my hand down between my legs.

I mimic Janeth's movements as good as I can with my hand, trying to remember where her tongue would hit, as I fantasize how Rosalie would do the same.

It's springtime and my life at home is a constant screaming competition. I yell, they yell, we all yell. I want to move home, they won't budge, and it continues on forever. I tell them I hate them, and my dad is two beats from hitting me. I can see it in his eyes. He wants to. I want him to. If he does, maybe I can leave.

"Out!" he yells, red faced. "Get out! Out of my house!"

My mom pleads with her eyes. _Just go. Come back later, but leave for now. _

My Saturday is spent in the park.

The sun shines.

The warm weather urges off my clothes. I'm down to shorts and a tank top.

And that's when I see her.

Rosalie Hale.

She's fucking _fine. _

Walking a dog – it can't be hers, I know she doesn't have one – in the sun. Throwing a Frisbee and tennis ball around. The dog comes back every time. I watch her and smile.

She looks happy.

All tight shorts and sleeveless top with taught pale skin.

I want to touch her so bad.

I want to taste her.

I want her to be mine.

Then, as if she can hear me, she turns around and spots me on the park bench. Her face lights up.

She approaches.

The dog is running around chasing its own tail.

My eyes don't budge.

Her legs.

Hips.

Breasts.

Face.

Towards me. Sitting down. So close.

"Hi."

"Hi."

Her smile is so sweet and innocent, and I'm glad she can't read my mind.

"Why do you always stare at me?"

"Huh?"

She giggles. Cute. "You stare at me. All the time. You know, in class? Don't think I don't know. I see you."

I'm terrified instantly. My heart thumps and my hands clam up. Adrenaline shoots through me, and the words are out before I can think. "Because I like you and I want you."

Yet she only smiles.

"Well I like you too."

And it's out there.

In small town America, two girls are sitting on a bench confessing they like each other.

It's forbidden. Frowned upon. And I don't give a damn. My parents are just a blur in the back of my mind as she leans in. I do the same. Her lips touch mine, and I'm in heaven.

I wanted her.

I craved her.

Now I have her.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The morning light wakes me. Mexico in the late summer is almost intolerable. The heat excruciating. My body is slick and sweaty. My chest feels heavy; my heart beats so fast, like I'm dying.

I wake up.

_What if?_

My dream taunts me. A cruel reminder that destiny is a string of choices summed up to a conclusion. My choices gave me heart ache. My choices gave her a child.

If she truly is happy, then I wouldn't change a thing.


End file.
